


Comfort and Joy

by musegnome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome
Summary: “Extra-large peppermint mocha, triple espresso, double whip!” called the barista. Crowley stepped forward and claimed his giant sugar-drenched monstrosity. The whipped cream ballooned over the rim of the paper cup, and the whole thing shed crumbles of crushed peppermint candy.Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the sight of it. In awe? Horror? Crowley couldn’t tell.He didn’t want to leave, not yet, but as he looked around he didn’t see an open table. Not even so much as a bar stool.“Er – were you planning on staying?” Aziraphale asked, a little shyly. “I’ve got an extra seat.”Written for the Good Omens OTP Prompts Event. Happy Holidays!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 286
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens OTP Prompts Event Works, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	Comfort and Joy

“You’re going to have to move out, Crowley.”

Crowley stared at Beezle in disbelief.

They shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, standing in line with Crowley at the coffee shop. “Look, we told you when we rented you the room. The lease says we’re not supposed to sublet to anyone. It’s not like we can’t use your money, but we’re not gonna get evicted for you.”

“It’s the end of the year. How the hell am I going to find somewhere to live now? Even if I tried to call around, half the school has already fucked off out of town for the holidays, and the other half’ll be gone after exams.”

Beezle shrugged. “You’ll manage.”

“There’s no way you can get me on the lease? You and Dagon share the big bedroom, it’s not like you’re even using the other one—”

“Look, we asked,” they interrupted. “The landlady wasn’t interested. She said you gotta be out by the end of the month.”

Crowley glared, trying to hide his panic under anger. “And you couldn’t wait to tell me this when I wasn’t supposed to be in class?”

“Dagon said she thought we should tell you now. So you had as much time as possible.”

The line shuffled forward until they were finally at the counter, and Beezle leaned forward to shout at the barista over the piped-in holiday music and the hiss of the steamers. “Small coffee. Black.” They glanced guiltily at Crowley. “And whatever he’s having.”

Black coffee was normally what he got, too, but right now it didn’t seem expensive enough. Crowley squinted at the menu. “Extra-large peppermint mocha. With a triple shot of espresso.”

“Whipped cream?” asked the barista.

“Yeah. Double.”

Beezle scowled as they stuck their credit card in the reader. “End of the month, Crowley. Sorry. You can maybe crash on the couch for a little after that, but you need to get your shit cleared out before the landlady comes back to check.”

And then they were gone, leaving Crowley to wait on his stupid fancy sugar bomb and wonder where the hell he was going to go.

He’d moved as far away from his hometown as he could get to escape his vicious family, and he’d fought hard to settle into his life here; he’d even sold most of his stuff for just enough money to get him through the school year. Beezle’s room had been the cheapest he could find.

He couldn’t get his head around the fact that he was suddenly losing such a big piece of the independence he’d achieved. But he’d be damned if he was going to go crawling back home.

 _Home._ As if he’d ever really had one.

There was a loud noise beside him: the polite clearing of a throat. “Could I trouble you for a hot water refill?” someone asked the barista hopefully.

Crowley knew that voice.

He knew the short, fluffy white curls too. They went with round pink cheeks and the grey-blue eyes whose gaze he always tried his best to catch, when he saw them twice a week in class.

The class he was supposed to be in right now, matter of fact.

Aziraphale Fell passed his mug across the counter. As the barista took it from him he turned, saw Crowley, and froze.

“Hello, Anthony,” he said awkwardly. “I, ah. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Could say the same,” Crowley said gleefully, Beezle and their news forgotten, just for a bit, in the thrill of the unexpected chance to talk to this pretty man away from the audience of their classmates. “You ought to be in class right now, yeah?”

Aziraphale quirked a small smile. “Could say the same.”

Crowley grinned.

The mug was handed back, hot water steaming. Aziraphale cradled it carefully and dropped a teabag in, but lingered at the counter with him. Crowley tried, unsuccessfully, not to read much into it.

“Extra-large peppermint mocha, triple espresso, double whip!” called the barista. Crowley stepped forward and claimed his giant sugar-drenched monstrosity. The whipped cream ballooned over the rim of the paper cup, and the whole thing shed crumbles of crushed peppermint candy.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the sight of it. In awe? Horror? Crowley couldn’t tell.

He didn’t want to leave, not yet, but as he looked around he didn’t see an open table. Not even so much as a bar stool.

“Er – were you planning on staying?” Aziraphale asked, a little shyly. “I’ve got an extra seat.”

The table for two was in a back corner, crammed with books and papers, and a plate, and a little pile of used teabags. A pair of boys hovered nearby, eyeing the empty seats in predatory fashion, but Aziraphale simply Looked at them and they left, muttering to themselves. Crowley was impressed.

“So what’s got you skipping class today?”

Of course Aziraphale’d waited until Crowley had a mouthful of peppermint coffee. He was proud that he only spluttered a little. “Had to meet someone. About some stuff. You?”

The other man fidgeted with his mug. “Just wanted to be somewhere I could hear the music, I suppose,” he finally said. “And get a little treat. Something festive.” The plate was filled with crumbs – cinnamon, sugar; streusel, maybe? Aziraphale pressed a finger into them, licked them off. Crowley couldn’t stop staring.

He was winter-picture-perfect, with his hot tea and his white-blond curls and a blue scarf that brought out the colour in his eyes. He smiled at Crowley – there it was, that smile, it had knocked him silly the first time he’d seen it in class, and every time after that too. “Nothing quite as extravagant as you’ve got there, though.”

Between the sugar on his tongue and the sweetness of Aziraphale at close range, the rush was almost too much for Crowley to handle. He looked away and busied himself making a messy hole in the whipped cream to get at the coffee.

He was appalled to discover he actually liked the drink.

“Oh! You’ve got some on your nose.” And for one glorious moment Crowley thought Aziraphale might touch him, wipe the cream softly from his face, but his hand twitched back in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

Crowley tried not to be disappointed as he took it and scrubbed his face awkwardly. It was a nice handkerchief though.

Monogrammed. Aziraphale Fell. A.F.

He fought the sudden urge to ask if he could keep it: a favour, a souvenir of this bright spot in a bad day.

“A.F.,” he mused instead as he passed it back. “Nice to have it marked as yours. But you know what else that stands for?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. ‘As Fuck.’ Certainly not the first time it’s been drawn to my attention.”

No, it probably wasn’t. But he was smiling, so he couldn’t be too annoyed? And that word passing those prim lips Did Something to Crowley.

“Uh. Yeah,” he croaked. “You lucked out in the initials department, I guess. _So_ many possibilities. You could be Smart As Fuck.”

“Weird As Fuck,” Aziraphale said ruefully.

“Cute As Fuck,” Crowley blurted. God, it must have been the damn drink, the caffeinated syrup jitters, he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud—

But Aziraphale was blushing, ducking his head to peek up at him from under long lashes, and Crowley thought wildly that maybe he hadn’t overstepped after all—

“Excuse me.” Suddenly there was a woman with bright red hair, grinning down at Aziraphale, aggressively courteous. “You’ve been here over an hour. Are you almost done?”

“No. I’m afraid we’re not.” He’d never thought _politeness_ could be ferocious before, but Aziraphale wielded it expertly. Crowley buried his face in his drink, peeping over the rim to watch Aziraphale lock eyes with the woman, never wavering, until she scowled and left.

It was unexpectedly sexy.

But their moment had passed; Crowley could see him drawing himself back in, and he flailed desperately for something to reconnect. “So you like the Christmas carols then?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale’s spark visibly banked the rest of the way back down to embers. “I do,” he admitted sadly, “but my flatmate doesn’t.”

 _Flatmate._ Thoughts of Beezle and Dagon and his impending eviction from their spare room came rushing back, bringing Crowley down too, like a sugar crash.

“Don’t guess you’re on the market for a new one?” He asked it without any real hope, and was unsurprised when Aziraphale shook his head.

“A flatmate? No, unfortunately. Not until next summer at least. When our lease is up. Why? Do you know someone who’s looking to rent a room?”

“Me.” Crowley took a long gulp of his coffee, crunched peppermint bits despairingly. “Afraid I need a place now.”

“Now? As in _now_ now?”

“Yeah. Before the end of the year.”

“That’s – that’s impossible!” Aziraphale was flushed pink again – in anger this time, on his behalf, Crowley thought, and he was gratified to see it. “That’s less than three weeks away.”

“Don’t I know it. But I’m not on the lease, and the landlady found out I was subletting a room, and long story short, I have to be out by the end of the month.”

Aziraphale frowned disapprovingly. Crowley wasn’t sure whether it was meant for him or the landlady. “Be that as it may, it’s ridiculous to expect you to find somewhere new to live on such short notice.”

His gaze sharpened. “You will have somewhere to stay, won’t you? If you can’t find a room?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be out on the streets.” _Not just yet, at least._ “But the sooner I can find somewhere the better.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, then.”

The smile was back: just a small one, an encouraging one, but Crowley would take it, and in exchange he traded his own, a twitch of his lips as he looked at Aziraphale over the detritus of hot drinks and baked goods.

Carols pealed cheerfully from the speakers overhead, and the smells of cinnamon and coffee wafted warm from the kitchen, and Crowley pretended to himself just for a moment that they were here together. Not here together by some weird class-skipping coincidence. But here together on purpose. For a snack or a drink or a meal.

On a date, maybe, like the ones he liked to imagine every week in class, until the lecture was over and Aziraphale was out the door before Crowley could get up the nerve to ask.

But instead they were here now, by happenstance, and Aziraphale was starting to check his watch (a _pocketwatch?!_ ) and shuffle his papers.

“I’m so sorry, Anthony.” Crowley took a crumb of consolation from the fact that he really did sound regretful. “I really must get going. The library closes their special collections early today, and I still have some work to do on my final presentation for next week.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Crowley said feebly. “I need to get started on mine too.”

“I should say you do,” Aziraphale said, shocked, as he stacked their dishes and trash neatly on the table. “Did you – did you want to walk over to the library with me?”

Crowley did. He did very much, actually. But unfortunately there were other, more pressing matters at hand. “Gotta spend some time looking for flats today, I think.”

Aziraphale’s hopeful face fell, tearing a little hole in Crowley’s heart as it went. “But I’ll see you in class?” Crowley rushed on. “Assuming we’re both there next time?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale hoisted his old satchel onto his shoulder. “Good luck with the living situation. And with the presentation, when you get around to it.”

As he walked away, Crowley called desperately after him, “Let me know if you ever want to skive off together again, though.”

Aziraphale gave him a little wave over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

It was back to reality, then. Crowley peered at the walls, finding what he was looking for, silently blessing Aziraphale for gifting him a table with an outlet.

As he plugged in his dying phone and started to look for room listings, he tried to ignore both the jangle of the Christmas music and the persistent feeling that, against all odds, he’d rather be at the library.

*~*~*

Aziraphale’s horror notwithstanding, Crowley had never been worried about his own presentation.

The course on the History of the Book offered the potential for a wide range of topics. He sat through his classmates’ discussions: genealogy records, prophecy books, even a presentation on computer repair manuals that the tall guy actually managed to make interesting.

Crowley dutifully reported on astronomy texts, a subject he’d enjoyed researching – even though Aziraphale had caught him out in the library yesterday as he sat buried in books and frantically typing. He’d passed him by with a lift of a single judgmental brow (honestly, the man’s facial expressions, he should be teaching drama) and was gone before Crowley could so much as take out his earbuds.

Aziraphale himself was just now pushing a little grey cart up to the front of the room. Of _course_ he was going to make it a show and tell. Crowley couldn’t think of anyone else who could have coaxed the librarians into letting him borrow books from the special collections, even though the class was held just a few floors down from their closed shelving stacks.

(Aziraphale had once said something about an interest in library science. Crowley hoped he was going that route, anyway, because he belonged in a library. Or an archive. Or hell, even a bookshop, an antique one, one of those places that hoarded rare books like cats and only occasionally sold them to collectors at ludicrous prices.)

His talk was on Bibles, and he’d brought along two, old and fragile, cradled in foam supports: one normal, apparently, and one with misprints.

“These errata were certainly considered a problem at the time they were made,” Aziraphale said, turning the pages carefully as they all crowded around the cart to see.

“But now, these mistakes make them valuable. Unique. Evidence of a human touch, even if it was making an error in the typeset. Perhaps the typesetter was just bored. Or,” he said slyly, “rushing to meet a deadline.”

Crowley looked up indignantly over the heads of their classmates to see Aziraphale watching him with a little smile, a soft one, full of fondness. Just for him? When Crowley grinned back, that little smile burst wider, burst dazzling over Aziraphale’s face like a sunrise.

He didn’t remember anything else about Aziraphale’s presentation. Or about the rest of the class at all, really.

And it was the last class, he realised as everyone began to pack up their bags. The very last class he’d have with Aziraphale.

“Hey!” he called.

Aziraphale paused from fussing over the books and glanced back at him quizzically.

Now that he had Aziraphale’s attention (and half the rest of the students’, too), he couldn’t think of what to say.

“Um. It’s been good. Having this class together, I mean,” he said awkwardly.

“It has.” Aziraphale wheeled the cart close and waited, actually _waited_ , instead of running out the door like usual.

“Gonna be weird not seeing you.”

“It will. Be weird. Not seeing you too, that is. I see me all the time. But I guess you knew what I meant.” Aziraphale laughed nervously, and Crowley took heart from it, from the fact that he wasn’t the only one tripping all over himself, and blurted:

“Would you like to get coffee again sometime? For real, I mean. Not by accident.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see their other classmates whispering, smiling, and he hated it but at the same time he somehow didn’t really mind. The professor was hiding a grin herself. “Turn out the lights when you leave,” she said as she slipped out the door.

“Tea for me, I think. But yes! Yes.” Aziraphale pulled out his pocketwatch. “I’ve actually got a little time now, if you’re free? I just have to get these books upstairs first. I won’t be their favourite assistant any more if I’m late getting them back.”

Crowley trailed after him to the lift, flicking the light switch as they walked out the door. “So you’re the favourite assistant?”

“I like to think so, at least.” Aziraphale pushed the cart inside and held the lift door open for him.

There was barely enough room for the two of them plus the cart, and as they rode up Crowley was burningly conscious of Aziraphale pressed lightly against his side.

He had to wait in the reading room while Aziraphale took the books back behind the _staff-only_ door. “I’m so sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’ll only be a minute.”

The moment he’d vanished, Crowley scowled and tried to look threatening at the librarian behind the desk, who was watching him speculatively.

He pulled out his phone. No messages. No emails. No missed calls. The reception was shit in the whole building, so maybe they hadn’t come through, but more than likely it was just that all the people he’d been trying to contact about rooms were gone for the holidays.

“Is that the redheaded guy you’ve been talking about for months?”

The stage whisper was hard to miss, and Crowley looked up to see Aziraphale blushing fiercely as he pulled on his long cream-coloured coat. “Honestly, Uriel! What if he hadn’t been?” he snapped, but there was no real anger in it.

“So I am, then?” Crowley demanded, delighted.

“Perhaps.” With a last glare at the laughing librarian, he turned to Crowley. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Have a Happy Christmas, Aziraphale!” she called after them as they left. “And you too, Anthony.”

Aziraphale covered his pink face with a hand. “You too,” he said, muffled behind his fingers.

“Y’know,” said Crowley as the lift descended, “if you’re going to go around telling people about me, you should probably know I don’t usually go by Anthony. It’s Crowley.”

“Your last name? But we’ve been calling you Anthony in class all semester, and you never said a word.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe not everyone gets to know.” He scuffed his foot against the worn linoleum. “Just the lucky ones.”

He thought he heard a little catch of breath, but when he glanced over, Aziraphale was beaming. “Lucky. Indeed.”

They trudged through the snow to the coffee shop in bashful silence.

It was almost empty when they arrived, and Crowley tried not to think too hard about how few people were left in town.

Aziraphale stepped up to the counter. “Tea, please. The holiday breakfast blend, if you’ve still got any left. And… an extra-large peppermint mocha. With triple espresso and double whipped cream?”

Crowley stared at him in astonishment: it was perfect, he’d remembered it perfectly. “Yeah. That’s right.” Aziraphale’s face, tight with uncertainty, relaxed into relief.

As he took out his wallet and began to count out coins, Crowley belatedly realised what he was doing. “Oi! No need for that, I’ve got it—”

Aziraphale ignored him and slid the money across the counter. The barista took it with the long-suffering sigh of someone used to customers squabbling over the bill.

“Let me have that, then.” Crowley whipped out his credit card recklessly and pointed at the biggest piece of shortbread in the display case.

“More sugar on top of that enormous drink? You’ll be bouncing off the walls,” Aziraphale teased as the barista slipped it onto a plate.

“It’s not for me.” And he pushed it into Aziraphale’s hand.

It was saccharine, was what it was, Crowley knew as he gazed besottedly at that pretty smiling face. Sappy. Pure syrup.

But he was discovering that he didn’t so much mind having a sweet tooth.

“So are you all done for the semester?” Aziraphale asked as they settled into their seats. If the place was going to be empty, at least it made it pleasant to not have to defend the table from interlopers.

“That’s it for me,” Crowley said.

“Have you found a new place yet?”

"Not yet,” he admitted. “Been a bit hard to get anyone to answer calls or texts or anything.”

“Busy with the holidays, I expect,” Aziraphale agreed. “But whatever are you going to do? Surely you could ask for a little extra time under the circumstances.”

Crowley shook his head. “They said I could sleep on the couch for a bit if I needed to, so that’s something at least. But I’d rather not gamble on it if I don’t have to.”

“We-ell…” Aziraphale broke off a bit of the shortbread and crumbled it between fidgety fingers. “If you’re stuck staying on a sofa, you could stay on mine. My flatmate’s about to be gone until the semester starts.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open, he couldn’t help it, and Aziraphale flushed dark. “It was just a suggestion, of course – too forward, I know – just the sofa—”

“No no no no!” Crowley cried, and whipped cream and coffee splashed onto the table as he shoved his drink aside to clasp Aziraphale’s fluttering hands in his own. “It’s all right, it’s lovely actually, so kind of you.”

He wanted to say more, but his mind was stuttering to a halt, feeling soft skin under his fingertips, smooth with butter, rough with crumbs.

“Um,” he muttered, very intelligently, and pulled away, and fished about for paper napkins to mop up the spill. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Aziraphale moved aside their dishes and helped him clean. “Quite all right,” he said hesitantly, his earlier brightness dimmed. “It wouldn’t be an imposition. But please know the offer’s there, if you need it.”

Together they stacked wet napkins in a pile at the center of the table. “So you won’t be going home for the holidays? Your family’s not upset?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut so hard Crowley thought he heard his teeth click. “No,” he said, clipped and tight.

He had a gift, Crowley decided, a gift for asking exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. But this kind of family was something he thought he knew more than a little about. He searched out Aziraphale’s gaze, smiled small and sympathetic when he connected to those blue eyes. “Mine aren’t either.”

This time it was Aziraphale who reached out, squeezing Crowley’s hand gently before looking away and leaning back in his chair. “Besides, I can pick up a lot of extra hours at work over the holidays.”

“At work? I thought after today the library was closed until the new year.”

“No, at my other job, my – my job! Oh, _fuck_!” Aziraphale whipped out his watch, face going pale. “I’m so sorry, I have to run, I’m going to be late.”

“Wait!” Crowley cried, but he was gone, scarf and coat flying behind him as he disappeared out the door like the fucking White Rabbit, like Santa Claus back up the chimney, gone from the face of the earth.

“I never even got your number,” he said forlornly to the plate of crumbled shortbread.

Broom bristles hissed on tile next to him. “Don’t worry,” the barista reassured him as she swept the floor. “He comes here all the time. And I see him around town sometimes too. Just wait. You’ll find him again.”

“You think?”

“I don’t _think,_ ” she said disdainfully. “I _know_.” She tucked a dark curl back into her hairnet and nodded toward the dishes. “You done with those?”

He pushed his chair back and let her clear the table.

“Thanks,” he said, and he meant it. Mostly. “While you’re at it… don’t guess you _know_ anyone with a room to let?”

*~*~*

Not only had the barista had no helpful suggestions regarding available living quarters, she’d also been wrong about catching up with Aziraphale.

Crowley’d been haunting the coffee shop for days. Still no fluffy white curls. Still no returned calls or messages either, except for a voicemail from a woman telling him she didn’t rent to students and an unsolicited dick pic from a number he’d texted from an online housing ad.

The shop closed early on Christmas Eve. When he went dejectedly back to Beezle and Dagon’s, he found the locks had been changed.

At least Dagon was there to let him in.

“Sorry, Crowley,” she said as he stormed inside. “The landlady came by today, said she was worried about you having the key. We had to throw your stuff in boxes and tell her you’d left.

“We tried not to break it,” she added. “I think we’ve got bubble wrap around somewhere if you want to pack it up better.”

She was right. None of it was broken. It was pitiful though, what was left of it after he’d sold what he could; it barely filled two small boxes. He dragged his beat-up black suitcase from under the bed and started refolding his clothes.

“You can probably go ahead and stay here tonight if you want. I don’t think she’ll be back today,” Dagon offered, standing in the doorway and watching him pack.

“Nah. I’ll go ahead and get out. Early Christmas present for you and Bee, yeah?”

“Crowley—”

“S’alright. Could you help me with the plants?”

He took every last one of them with him, even the little spider plant in the kitchen, even though he knew it wouldn’t be good for them in the cold car. It took the two of them four trips.

The suitcase was the last thing he brought out. As he threw it into the boot, Dagon tapped his shoulder.

“Here,” she said, holding out two twenty-pound notes. “It’s all I’ve got on me. We’ll call it a refund on this last week’s rent.” She had the grace to look ashamed.

For a second Crowley debated turning it down, but beggars – _possibly literal beggars, soon_ – couldn’t be choosers, and he snatched the money out of her hand with a mutter of thanks and stuffed it in his pocket before his wounded pride could object.

She disappeared back into the flat. The door slammed shut.

Crowley slid into the car and buried his face in his hands.

At least he hadn’t sold the car yet, there was that; it was nothing much, just a beat-up run-of-the-mill black sedan, but he loved it anyway. He’d needed it to get to school, and to his parents’ house when he was still going home twice a year to see them (and to collect his Christmas cheque). And now it looked like he’d be needing it to sleep in.

He drove around aimlessly for a while – just to keep the plants warm, he told himself – until he was afraid to waste any more petrol.

Hotels were still open on Christmas Eve, right? He could find someplace to stay, at least for the night. Could probably make it through at least until the new semester started, when everyone was back and maybe bothering to answer their damn texts. Surely, surely then he could find a place.

He pulled into the next open corner shop he saw, hoping for a coffee and some food.

It was shit coffee, half-burnt, no peppermint or whipped cream, but it was hot and it was cheap and the paper cup warmed his hands when he’d filled it full.

Rows and rows of junk food spread out before him, all kinds of candy and crisps, and on impulse he picked up one of the store’s little baskets and hooked it over his arm. He could afford a little Christmas candy, why not? He had forty extra pounds. And it wasn’t like he had a rent payment coming up.

He tossed in whatever caught his eye. Liquorice. Toffee. Jelly babies. Sherbet lemons. Before these last couple of weeks, he’d never known how much he could crave sugar.

“You’re telling me you won’t give me your employee discount? Come on. It’s Christmas Eve, Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s head whipped around. It couldn’t possibly be. But there couldn’t possibly be two people with that name, either.

He peeked around the end of the aisle. And sure enough, there behind the counter was Aziraphale, wearing a blue apron with the store logo, being loomed over by a tall, handsome, belligerent guy in a designer suit who apparently wanted to haggle over energy drinks.

When Aziraphale saw Crowley, his face split into a surprised grin.

The customer turned, frowning, to see what had captured his attention, and behind his back Aziraphale schooled his face into a polite customer-service smile. “Hello, there. Are you ready to check out?” He looked like a man desperately in need of a rescue.

“Yes, I think so,” Crowley said, marching up to the counter and depositing his haul, nudging the energy drinks to the side.

“I’m sorry to rush you, Gabriel, but I can’t keep anyone waiting. Was there anything else you needed?”

“No,” Gabriel said sullenly, shoving coins at Aziraphale and stalking out the door with his bag.

“Have a Happy Christmas!” Aziraphale called after him.

When he’d gone, Aziraphale slouched forward onto the counter. “Oh, thank heavens. His father gives him enough money to buy Armani suits and yet every time he comes in he wants me to let him have drinks for half-price.”

“Is he a regular?”

“He’s my flatmate.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’m not sorry to say that’s the last I’ll see of him until after the holidays.

“It’s so good to see _you_ , though!” he went on, happily. “I didn’t realise until after I’d gotten to work that day that I had no way to get back in touch.”

“I went back to the coffee shop looking for you. The girl there said you came in all the time.”

Aziraphale looked stricken. “Oh! I’m so terribly sorry. I haven’t had a chance to go back yet – I’ve been working more shifts here since school let out. The money’s very helpful this time of year, you see.”

Up close Crowley saw dark rings under his eyes, and heard hoarseness in his voice. Aziraphale was tired.

“It’s all right,” he reassured him. “Was just disappointed, is all. I’d wanted to see you again, and you ran off before I could get your number.”

“Ah. I’m glad to hear it, then… I’d wanted to see you again, too.” Aziraphale gave him a bashful smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise there won’t be any running out the door today! I’m here at work for the next two hours.”

He upended Crowley’s basket and began ringing up the candy. “Oh, my. This looks lovely. Are you having a party?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said quickly. “Just a few friends over.”

Aziraphale inspected the pile. “No chocolates?”

Three Dairy Milks and a bag of Maltesers later, Crowley was scooping everything into a bag as Aziraphale popped open the register drawer. He hummed as he primly counted out pence. “Oh, dear. Gabriel didn’t wait for his change. I suppose I could put it toward the next customer’s purchase.”

Even so, the price tag was lower than Crowley expected. Aziraphale smiled innocently. “That’s the total after the employee discount.”

 _God_ , he adored this beautiful bastard.

“I suppose you’ve got to get going.” Aziraphale fussed behind the counter, straightening the displays, carefully not looking at him. “Your party’s going to be starting soon, yes?”

With a sigh, Crowley leaned forward on his elbows. “Not a party,” he confessed. “More like Christmas Eve dinner. For one.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, horrified, and it was Crowley’s turn to look away. He bit his lip.

“If I’d known this was going to be your dinner, I’d have recommended the Jaffa Cakes instead. They’ve got a little more heft than Maltesers.”

His sob hiccupped into a snort. A warm hand found its way into his own, and he turned to meet blue eyes.

“You know,” said Aziraphale conversationally, “I’ve been waiting for Gabriel to leave to put up my Christmas decorations. I could use some help with them. And I think I’ve got enough leftover pizza for two.” He slipped his hand free and gestured at Crowley’s bag. “With your snacks, we could make an occasion out of it. Have a proper Christmas Eve.”

“Is your sofa still open?” Crowley asked before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale nodded, eyes softening.

“Well, then. Sounds like a plan.” He tried on a casual smile.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said briskly. “Would it be all right for you to just meet me at the flat when I’m done with work?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I need to get your number this time.” Crowley pulled out his phone expectantly.

Numbers exchanged, address obtained, Crowley collected his candy and his bad coffee and departed. On his way out the door he paused at a display of cheap Christmas decorations. With a guilty glance at Aziraphale, who was busily restocking the chocolates, he slipped one into his pocket.

He could have had him ring it up, but he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

*~*~*

Crowley felt like an arse, wandering around lost on Christmas Eve with a bag of candy and a spider plant. He had Aziraphale’s building number, and the flat number too, but he’d still somehow managed to get himself turned around.

 _Make sure you come in the west entrance,_ Aziraphale had told him. _I’m on the third floor. Four doors down from the stairs. Look for a green wreath with tartan ribbons._

Well, Crowley couldn’t say for sure whether he’d come in the west entrance or not, he didn’t have a bloody compass, but he was pretty sure he’d walked at least a couple kilometres’ worth of third floor and he hadn’t seen a single decoration matching that description.

And Aziraphale wasn’t answering his texts. And Crowley’s calls were going straight to voicemail.

He rounded a corner and suddenly, there it was, halfway down the hall. He’d been expecting something big, some huge navigational landmark, but this was little – maybe the size of a dinner plate, with a modest tartan bow. He looked for a stairwell, and counted doors: One. Two. Three. Four.

The wreath was a little crooked, he saw as he approached the door. He straightened it before giving a tentative knock.

No one answered.

Right.

He was halfway back down the hall toward the stairs when he heard a door creak open. “Crowley?”

When he turned back, there was Aziraphale, leaning out into the hall. “There you are. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were red and his mouth was drawn tight, and Crowley’s irritated embarrassment immediately evaporated. “You all right?”

“Oh! Yes.”

But he didn’t _sound_ all right. He sounded like somebody in deep and total shock.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh! Yes,” Aziraphale said again, and he moved aside so Crowley could enter.

Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Aziraphale’s flat, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw when he stepped inside:

The entire thing was empty.

Stark white floors, stark white walls; Crowley could see the dents in the rug where furniture had sat not very long ago, and could see the scuffs of footsteps in the nap of it.

“Have you been robbed?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. And Gabriel’s not answering his phone. I did get through to the police, though. They’re on their way.”

Would the police need to see the footprints? Crowley wasn’t sure. He tiptoed to the kitchen tile to toss down the candy and set down the plant.

“I’m so very sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, slumping against the wall and sliding down to the floor. “But it doesn’t look like I have a free sofa after all.”

Crowley stared at him, incredulous. “Your stuff’s been stolen, and all you can think of is me not having a sofa to sleep on?!”

“Of course.” Aziraphale blinked up at him, baffled, still dazed. “It would be _terribly_ uncomfortable for you to have to sleep on the floor.”

It was a bizarre observation, coming at the end of a long and miserable day, and Crowley couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh. And after a few uncertain seconds Aziraphale joined him, their chortles graduating to cackles and then to full blown _howls_ of hysterical mirth, and Crowley couldn’t stand upright anymore, and he collapsed into Aziraphale’s lap on the floor.

They were still giggling in each other’s arms when the police knocked on the door.

***

Crowley had had run-ins with the police once or twice as a teenager, but he’d never been part of a robbery investigation. He’d thought it would be more exciting. Some high-end digital photography; some dramatic questioning of witnesses. Maybe a sniffer dog. (He remembered his recently-shoplifted plastic trinket with discomfort.) Dusting for fingerprints at the very least.

What there actually was… was paperwork.

Aziraphale worked with the police to fill out form after form. Statements. Inventories. Contact information.

Crowley had to give a statement, himself. “Does he live here too?” one of the constables asked.

“No, no,” Aziraphale assured her hastily. “He’s just a friend. From school.”

She raised a brow but noted it down. When she asked Crowley for his address, he gave them Beezle and Dagon’s flat. He might not have been officially on the lease, but he had six months of online rent payments to Dagon to show if they asked for them.

“So this is everything that’s gone? Is there anything important that wasn’t taken?” The constable studied the inventory list as her colleague went out in the hall to talk to the neighbours. Crowley winced as he heard a man’s irritated grumble and an excited child asking something about Santa.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said. “It’s Gabriel’s things that are gone. It seems like everything of mine is still here, and I’ve got a little cash and some quite valuable items from my grandmother.”

“Everything of yours,” the constable said, slowly, “is still here.”

“Look, I’ll show you.” Aziraphale led them to the last closed room and threw open the door.

It was a stunning contrast to the rest of the flat’s bleak emptiness. Every square millimetre of every available surface was covered. Trinkets and gadgets and forgotten teacups. Thick blankets piled cosily on the double bed. Expensive-looking stationery and fountain pens. And books of all sizes and sorts, stacked absolutely everywhere. Aziraphale clearly didn’t need to _become_ a book hoarder; he already _was_ one.

He stood in the doorway, wringing his hands. “Do I need to make an inventory of what’s in here, too?”

The constable closed her notebook. “What I think you need to do, Mr Fell,” she said, very calmly, “is talk to your flatmate.

“Brian!” she shouted. “I think we can wrap things up here.”

“I _have_ talked to him!” Aziraphale cried, hurrying behind her as she strode toward the front door, Crowley following after them both. “I saw him not three hours ago, as a matter of fact, and all we discussed were the drinks he was buying. I knew he would be leaving for the holidays, but he never once said all of his things would be going with him _._ And what was I supposed to think, when I got home from work and his expensive furniture and his fancy television and – and even his designer _toaster_ were missing?”

He sat heavily back down on the floor. “I’m not an idiot,” he said quietly. “Gabriel was the first person I called when I walked through the door. But he’s not answering me. And I simply cannot believe he’d whisk everything away like this without telling me.”

Crowley could believe it. Very easily. Even though he’d never exchanged so much as a word with the man.

“Look,” said the constable, not unkindly. “At this point there’s not much else we can do until we can get hold of him. I do think it’s safe for you to stay here in the flat overnight, if you want, though I know that’s not a very pleasant Christmas Eve. We’ll see what we can find out, and we’ll let you know when we have any news. And we’d ask that you please give _us_ a ring if you hear anything in the meantime.”

The other constable came back in, and after a brief whispered conversation they turned to go.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale called numbly after them. “And Happy Holidays.”

“Happy Holidays,” the constable replied as she pulled the door shut behind them.

It echoed in the empty room.

Aziraphale huffed out a sigh. “ _You_ don’t think I’ve been stupid about all of this, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Crowley replied truthfully. He looked down at that lovely anxious face and felt anger coursing through him. “But do I think Gabriel’s been a complete wanker.”

He sank the floor next to Aziraphale, thrashing his long legs into a sloppy heap. “A designer toaster. Really?”

“He paid two hundred pounds for it. It changes to seven different colours and toasts pictures into the bread.” Aziraphale scrubbed wearily at his face. “But none of it matters because he just likes it burnt.”

He pushed himself upright and staggered off to the kitchen. Crowley could hear him opening cabinets and drawers. He poked his head back around the corner. “Toaster aside, of course, all of my kitchen supplies seem to be present. Can I get you something to eat? Or drink?”

Crowley considered. “Got anything alcoholic?”

Aziraphale did. It was just a couple of bottles of cheap red he found at the back of a cupboard – “Gabriel has _atrocious_ taste in wine,” Aziraphale said ruefully – and the corkscrew was apparently gone, so they had to chip out the corks with a sword-shaped letter opener. The wine glasses were gone too, so they drank it out of mugs with little angel wings.

The spider plant sat lonely on the counter in its red ceramic pot. Aziraphale brushed its leaves gently with a fingertip. “What a pretty thing. A nice festive colour, too.”

“It’s your Christmas present,” Crowley said. It won him a tired little smile.

He suddenly remembered the rest of them, out in the car in the cold. “Got room for any more?”

It only took them three trips to bring everything inside, mostly because Aziraphale was easily able to carry two of the biggest plants at a time, a fact which took up more of Crowley’s attention than he expected.

Without thinking about much of anything but those strong hands cradling the pots, he popped the boot and pulled out his suitcase. And froze.

“Uh – is it still okay? To stay?”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale gave him a funny half-smile. “If you think you’ll be comfortable.”

The plants were a pop of colour in the empty flat, even though Aziraphale insisted on cramming them all onto the kitchen tile so as to protect the white carpet.

They drank more wine in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional plant-related question. Halfway through the second bottle, Aziraphale brought out the promised leftover pizza. It wasn’t too bad warmed up in the oven. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was, and the greasy carbs were perfect, though his head was gently spinning from the wine.

“Well, everyone.” Aziraphale addressed the plants, not looking at Crowley. “This is not quite the Christmas Eve I’d had planned.”

He sounded exhausted, and miserable, and very possibly on the verge of tears.

Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. When Aziraphale turned to him with brimming eyes, he pulled the other man into a hug.

“We’ve still got everything you talked about. We had pizza. We’ve got candy. And hey! You said you have decorations to put up, yeah? Get ‘em out.”

“But – everything’s gone,” Aziraphale protested. “Nothing left to decorate, is there?”

“Fuck that. It’s ‘deck the walls,’ right? Not ‘deck the sofa’ or ‘deck the telly.’”

“Deck the _halls_ ,” Aziraphale corrected, but he was giggling, and the tears were gone from his eyes, and Crowley thought it was probably going to be all right.

They tacked up garlands, the fuzz of the tinsel tickling Crowley’s fingers. There were just enough brightly-coloured fairy lights to line the window in the living room. Aziraphale brought out a little fake tree that turned out to be shorter than half of Crowley’s plants, but they hung ornaments on it anyway, baubles of red and silver and gold, and an angel to go on top.

They surveyed the results from the kitchen doorway, eating Crowley’s candy and watching the fairy lights blink on and off. Crowley thought of the last little decoration in his pocket. Debated with himself whether he should even do this, after this long wretched day, after all the wine. But he reached into his pocket anyway and pulled it out and offered it in an open hand that only shook a bit.

Aziraphale stared at the sprig of fake mistletoe with its cheap red velvet bow. He looked back at Crowley with an incredulous expression on his face.

“Did you nick that from the shop?” he demanded.

It was not the response Crowley was hoping for.

“No. Yes. Maybe,” he muttered, and tossed it aside, he could feel his cheeks burning, he regretted bringing this up, bringing his stuff up, he regretted everything—

A strong hand closed gently around his wrist. Soft fingers brushed his face. He turned to see fluffy white curls, pink cheeks and grey-blue eyes and a mouth curving into a shy smile.

And Aziraphale reached into his own pocket and produced an identical piece of plastic mistletoe.

“I never really meant for you to sleep on the sofa anyway,” he murmured, and held it over Crowley’s head, and kissed him.

*~*~*

Crowley woke up slow and warm and comfortable, more relaxed than he’d been in days.

He reached out, hoping for soft, warm naked skin, but the other half of the bed was empty. He flailed his way out from under a mountain of blankets. There was no Aziraphale, but the whole room smelled deliciously of vanilla and cinnamon.

His suitcase was still in the living room, so he pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a soft, cream-coloured jumper he found hanging over the back of a chair.

When he opened the bedroom door, it was to utter chaos in the kitchen. There were bowls and spoons everywhere, and open bags of flour and caster sugar scattered across the counter amongst the smaller plants.

And there was Aziraphale, right in the middle of it all, taking a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. He wore a fuzzy white dressing gown over blue pyjama pants with little snowflakes. His curls were sticking up every which way, and he had a smear of flour on his cheek, and he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You were supposed to stay asleep so I could bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Probably for the best. Not sure I’d have been interested in breakfast if you’d come back to bed looking like that.” Crowley kissed him, brushing the flour from his cheek with a careful thumb, and smiled slyly. “Y’know. Aziraphale Fell. Cute As Fuck.”

“Stop that,” Aziraphale laughed, though he was blushing hard, and looking Crowley up and down appreciatively. “No distractions. These are best while they’re still warm.”

“I guess it’s good to find yourself a man who knows where his priorities are.”

Aziraphale stilled from his flitting about the kitchen. “Did you, then?” he asked tentatively. “Find yourself a man?”

Crowley grinned, and grabbed a tea towel, and plucked the pan from his hands and set it on the stove. “You know, I think I did. I really think I did.” And he gathered Aziraphale into his arms and kissed him again.

***

The cinnamon rolls were cold by the time they got back to them, but they ate them anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the little tree with Christmas carols playing tinnily out of Crowley’s phone.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said as he licked frosting from his fingers. “I know it’s not really a standard holiday breakfast, but I’ve been looking forward to them for weeks. We always had them at my grandparents’ house. All that lovely cinnamon brings back some nice memories.”

“In complete and total honesty, this is the best Christmas breakfast I think I can remember.” And it was. It truly was. Crowley shuddered inside to think about what his Christmas Eve would have been if he hadn’t had the pure luck to stumble into Aziraphale’s store.

A silvery jingle of bells pealed from the bedroom, and Aziraphale shot to his feet. “My phone!” he cried, and vanished, leaving Crowley to gather their plates and sneak into the kitchen to eavesdrop.

He washed the dishes as quietly as he could.

“Of course I tried to ring you twelve times, Gabriel, I thought we’d been robbed!” Aziraphale said angrily. “…Yes. I _know_ it was Christmas Eve, but perhaps you should have picked up after the third or fourth call at least? It was Christmas Eve here too, you know, the poor constables were here so late little Adam Young thought they were Santa Claus knocking on the door!”

There was a furious pause. Ears straining, Crowley scrubbed gently at crusted sugar on a bowl.

“How exactly was I supposed to ‘figure it out,’ Gabriel? You told me you were going home for Christmas, but you never said a _word_ about _moving_ home!”

Crowley moved closer to the bedroom, pretending to water the plants, listening hard.

“Well, congratulations! That’s all very well and good for you, but when exactly did you intend to give _me_ this news? …Ah. And what am I supposed to do about rent for the rest of the lease?”

He realised he’d dumped three mugs of water into the poor sword plant. He set down the cup and abandoned all pretense, and lurked eagerly by the bedroom door.

“Really?” Aziraphale sounded surprised. “I see. And he said what? ...Well. I believe I might be able to find someone. But I’m not sure why you expected—Oh! You did? You really did? That’s – that’s very kind of you.” The bite was gone from his voice.

“It would have been nice, however, to have had some advance warning.” This close, Crowley could hear a bit of the tone of the voice on the other end of the line. It was… apologetic?

“And you’re going to call the police and straighten the rest of this out, yes?” asked Aziraphale crisply. An affirmative-sounding response from the phone. “Wonderful. Well, then. Let me know if they need any more information from me. I’m sure I’ll be in touch. Please do me the courtesy of answering your phone next time.”

Crowley heard footsteps and leapt back to the sink and plunged his hands into the dishwater just as Aziraphale opened the door and paced through. “Yes. Yes, Merry Christmas to you too.”

He tapped his phone to end the call and set it down on the counter, taking a deep breath.

“So. I’m not sure how much of that you heard…”

Crowley tried to look oblivious as he shook his hands off and dried them on his jeans.

“…but it seems as if Gabriel has been offered – been _given –_ a job at his father’s firm. A job for which a completed business degree is not a necessary requirement.”

“Let me guess,” Crowley said. “He doesn’t need a flat in a town he’s not going to school in, either.”

“He does not. Although he _does_ apparently need all of his furniture. Which he felt I would somehow be able to ‘figure out’ despite his total lack of communication. However!” Aziraphale held up a finger, grinning, clearly enjoying the production, and Crowley was too, filled for the first time with something like hope.

“To his credit, Gabriel did think to check with our landlord as to whether he could get out of the lease. The landlord said he’d release him if he could get another renter to take his place. Gabriel expected _me_ to do the legwork on this, of course, and I’m not sure why he thought I’d be able to find a new flatmate at this time of year. But fortunately, I think I might have heard of someone looking for a room.

“But do you want to know the best part?”

“There’s more?” Crowley gasped, playing along, not having to pretend to be delighted, excited.

“There is!” The blue eyes were absolutely sparkling. “He didn’t think I’d be able to find someone. And he actually felt bad.”

He clasped Crowley’s hands and swung him around. “He felt _bad_ , Crowley! That’s not a word I thought was in his vocabulary. Not about himself, at least.”

“So what did he do?” They were grinning at each other now, bright and joyous.

Aziraphale threw back his head and laughed. “He paid up the rent through the end of the lease!”

He released Crowley and drew himself impeccably upright, dusting off his dressing gown and doing an admirable job of looking formal for someone still wearing snowflake pyjamas.

“So, Mr Crowley, it seems I’m taking applications for a flatmate after all. I believe you’ve had a chance to see the premises. The flat only comes partially furnished, I’m afraid, but I can assure you the rent will be quite reasonable.”

“From what I’ve seen, Mr Fell, the accommodations appear to be quite adequate. And with the rent rates it seems we’re looking at, I may have sufficient funds to assist with the furniture situation.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale to him, crushing him to his chest. He literally could not comprehend his good fortune; he was stunned with it, stunned with his luck and with the lovely laughing man in his arms.

“I’m afraid, however,” Aziraphale breathed into his ear, “that you might be required to share a room.”

Oh, this angel. This beautiful Christmas angel.

“Why, Mr Fell,” Crowley murmured. “I believe I find those terms to be entirely acceptable.”

And as Aziraphale drew him through the warm-cinnamon kitchen toward the bedroom, ( _their_ bedroom), from the living room he could just hear the carols still playing on his phone.

_Tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy,_

_Oh, tidings of comfort and joy._

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes from not just one of the OTP Prompts from the prompt generator (which you can find at <https://atsuzaki-playground.neocities.org/> as of 2020-12-25), but from five of them put together!
> 
> "Aziraphale and Crowley meet in university at one of the neighboring restaurants [or coffee shops!] when they both realize they're skipping the same class."
> 
> "Aziraphale and Crowley sharing a soft smile across a crowded room."
> 
> "Crowley buying a lot of junk food in a store where Aziraphale is the cashier. Aziraphale asks about the food and Crowley thinks they're super cute and they get really embarrassed because they're not actually having a party, this is all for them. Bonus: Crowley invites Aziraphale back to their place after their shift." [I took a little creative license with this one, as you can see.]
> 
> "Aziraphale and Crowley decorating their house with seasonal decorations."
> 
> "Crowley following Aziraphale's family traditions that they enjoy."
> 
> Thank you for reading this holiday fluff - and I hope you're having a lovely day or holiday in whatever flavor you'd like to celebrate!  
> xoxo Muse


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